


It Doesn't Get Better

by smallxion



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alcoholism, Angst, Anxiety, Depression, Food Issues, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Panic Attacks, Self-Harm, Suicidal Thoughts, this is kind of heavy so fair warning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-17
Updated: 2015-08-05
Packaged: 2018-04-04 20:37:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,971
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4152072
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smallxion/pseuds/smallxion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Everyone assumes Enjolras is his miracle cure, and that bodes well for him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. shatter your skull

Feuilly gives him a courteous smile as he walks away. “Well, I’m glad you’re doing okay.” 

_Doing okay,_ Grantaire thinks. _Fuck me._

Everyone assumes Enjolras is his miracle cure, and that bodes well for him. He doesn’t tell them that just because he smiles more at the Musain doesn’t mean everything’s okay. That would be completely counterproductive, because then they’d try to intervene, and he doesn’t need people holding him back while he actively tries to destroy himself.

It’s a performance for which he deserves some kind of award, really. He’s a dancer, not an actor, but he has the principles down: if he eats around them, they assume he eats when he’s alone. If he forces himself to shave in the morning, they assume he’s motivated, the thought of him using those razors for something else no longer even crossing their minds. He’s sure he’s become a conversation piece as the friend who overcame depression and became a Vaguely Functional Member of Society. He’s honestly not bitter, they’re just wrong.

Because it’s still fucking hard to get out of bed, it’s just that now he has Enjolras to physically drag him out. Enjolras sits with him for breakfast despite a busy schedule and makes him toast or croissants that are usually kind of burnt, but all food tastes like dirt to Grantaire these days so he swallows it down anyway to see the smile on Enjolras’ face when he thinks he’s helped. Grantaire supposes that he has helped a little, it’s just that it’s one tiny drop in a whole ocean of bullshit.

As of now, Enjolras is stood beside a table in the centre of their room at the Musain. The meeting has just ended, and everyone’s filtered out except a few- Combeferre, Courfeyrac and, of course, Enjolras himself. Grantaire dimly registers that the three are discussing a rally against the rising Antisemitism and Islamophobia in France that’s supposed to take place tomorrow, and he knows he should care, he would care, but this is a bad day, where he’s self-centred enough that he can think of nothing but tearing his skin to pieces.

He had stood up assuming Enjolras would be leaving soon, but evidently that isn’t the case. He sits back down and tries to have a thumb war with himself. That’s a suitably Grantaire thing to do, he decides. If Enjolras glances over at him, he’ll roll his eyes and laugh, no worrying required. Perfect. Grantaire ends up getting absorbed in his little game (or rather just tuning any vaguely important thing out). So much so, in fact, that he doesn’t notice Enjolras walking over.

“Grantaire,” he says.

Grantaire’s head snaps up to look at him, dropping his hands and feeling more than a bit stupid. “Um, hi. You ready to get going?”

Enjolras bites his lip. “Actually,” he starts, and his already-apologetic tone kills any shred of hope that tonight could perhaps be an okay night. “Courfeyrac really needs help with his speech tomorrow, and I promised I’d help. I’m completely aware of how that reflects on me, because I said I’d actually come straight home today, but-”

“It’s fine,” Grantaire says, disguising his discomfort with a dismissive wave of the hand.

“No,” Enjolras insists, leaning down to meet Grantaire’s eyes. “It’s not fine, I just don’t really have a choice. Are you going to be okay by yourself?”

“Ange,” he says, pushing out his chair a bit. “It’s fine. I’ll be fine. Stay with Courf.”

That earns him a long, hard look. “If you get lonely, you are to text me.”

“Of course.” Of course he’d never actually do something like that, but Enjolras likes to think he would, and he’s all about keeping up pretences.

Enjolras takes Grantaire’s hand, brings it up to his lips and presses a kiss to it. “I love you,” he murmurs, gently laying it down on the table and rushing back over to the others. And thus Grantaire is alone again, and he just kind of fucks off back to the flat. That’s kind of becoming his default state.

*

To his credit, he tries really hard to be okay. He wants to avoid the panic- it’s a very specific kind of panic he only ever gets when Enjolras texts saying he’ll be home soon, and Grantaire has to stop the bleeding and the crying, then turn on the lights and the TV and pretend he spent the night watching shitty gameshows instead of half-heartedly fucking himself up. It’s not fun, and it feels even more like lying than his usual bullshit.

So instead of going through that, he tries to paint, but the thing about depression is it kind of sucks up your creativity. Grantaire has been staring at a blank canvas for about twenty minutes before he awkwardly sketches a line down with a pencil. He has no fucking clue what he’s trying to draw, but he just kind of keeps going with it- maybe it’ll come to him in the middle through some miracle of inspiration?

He gives up when he realises he’s just drawing a big scribble. The pencil is thrown at his feet (and Jesus Christ, he was using a 2H to sketch, how fucking out of it is he?), and he storms over to grab his jacket. Shrugging it on over his shoulders with quaking hands, he walks out of the flat, too far gone to remember to lock the door. It doesn’t really matter, because he’s back about ten minutes later, only now he’s a few euro poorer and in the possession of several bottles of shitty wine.

Enjolras trusts him, and that’s the worst part. He’s in recovery. He’s the reason Enjolras doesn’t allow any alcohol whatsoever in the flat, in case it tempts him into relapse. But yeah, here he is, and he knows he’s going behind his boyfriend’s back, and he’s a piece of shit, but it’s not like that’s shocking new information.

This isn’t the first time he’s cheated on his whole no-drinking thing. It doesn’t happen every time Enjolras is out or anything like that, but this is no isolated incident, and he’s not sure if that makes him feel better or worse. The first bottle is emptied within moments. This is different from the other times, because he actually knows he’s fucked. Usually, he only gets shitfaced if Enjolras is going to be out of his way, like at a conference for a few days, but nope. He’s going to come home and find Grantaire completely hammered, and Grantaire knows that but he can’t not do it. He needs a fucking drink. Scratch that, he needs several fucking drinks- he’s not in this for the taste, after all. If he was, he’d have gotten the good shit. No, he just wants to get so drunk he can’t feel his face, let alone anything else.

*

The nice thing about being drunk is that he can’t process his feelings. The not-so-nice thing is that when he can’t process his feelings, everything’s just some fucking murky haze and he can’t stop crying. At least they’re empty tears. When he’s sober, he cries because he has so many fucking problems, but drunk, he cries because he has no idea what’s wrong but the sadness won’t fucking leave.

It would be wrong to say the thought hits him. It’s kind of always there at the back of his mind, although in his addled state he doesn’t really notice it until it has crept up on him and seized his brain and he’s like, oh yeah, that’s an option. Is it really an option? Is it an addiction yet? He does it a whole lot more than the alcohol these days. It’s easier to hide.

The first time Enjolras saw Grantaire in short sleeves was weird. At the time they hadn’t been together long and Enjolras wasn’t very physically affectionate, but he’d smothered his boyfriend in kisses and told him repeatedly how “incredible” he was. It wasn’t an official thing or anything, but after that, he started checking Grantaire’s wrists at any given opportunity, and he was a lot less subtle than he seemed to think. Grantaire isn’t smart, but he did at least have the brainpower to start cutting his stomach and thighs instead, and to make sure the room is pitch black whenever things get intimate, and that Enjolras’ hands don’t wander anywhere where the raised-up scars feel too obvious.

The bag of razor blades is taped under the frame of the bed, concealed in the planks of wood so that if someone looks under the bed, they won’t see it unless they know where to look. It’s a precaution he’s taken to ever since he moved in with Enjolras. He snatches the bag from its hiding place with such vigour that a splinter lodges itself in his fingertip. He can’t bring himself to care enough to remove it, just kind of ignoring it and running into the bathroom. He doesn’t lock the door (he’s making a habit of forgetting), simply sits on the floor and gets to work.

He’s never cut while under the influence before, and he’s starting to see why. With lessened control over his muscles and already shaky hands, he can hardly make a dent. The blood trickles down his leg, but there’s not nearly enough. Frustrated and with vision obscured by tears, he takes another bling swing which barely grazes the skin. He presses the blade down and again, it bleeds, but not as much as usual- his hands are unsteady and he feels barely conscious. 

He’s never been unable to hurt himself up to standard before. Panic rising in his chest, he digs his fingernails into some dried-up, half-healed scratches. Everything is bleeding a little, but it’s not enough. All he wants is for something to bleed a lot. This hardly even hurts. It does not ground him or in any way bring him back to Earth the way it usually does. Alcohol has numbed his nerves and he wants nothing more than to rip out his own fucking internal organs.

He sits like this, clawing at his skin and praying for some random bout of competence over his own muscles, for a while- long enough that he doesn’t notice his phone buzz.

__

_We’re done. See you in ten minutes. –E_

The text remains unread right up until Enjolras walks through the door.

First is the sound of the front door opening, which makes Grantaire jerk in unpleasant surprise. He finds himself praying that it’s a robber or a murderer but nope, fuck, the distinguishing click of boots on the laminate flooring confirms his worst fear. Enjolras is back. 

He’s known for hours there’s no way he’ll be able to hide the evidence of his alcohol consumption, but for Enjolras to come home when he’s sat, bare-legged, blood dripping onto the floor…no. Enjolras thinks he’s over this too. Suddenly his throat is collapsing in on itself and air in his lungs is scarce.

There is a clinking noise. Enjolras must have found the empty wine bottles. Grantaire’s not sure if he imagines the quiet, pained, “Oh, no.”

“Grantaire?” Oh God, he can hear the frown Enjolras must be wearing. The sound of boots gets closer and closer until he can see Enjolras through the open bathroom door. He is powerless to do anything but watch dumbly, any ability to move swallowed by the instinct to freeze.

He can handle making Enjolras angry. Hell, he’s got him riled up for fun before. It’s fine. He braces himself to be yelled at, already numb to whatever he has to offer.

“Oh, R…”

He is all too aware of the embarrassing wetness of his eyes as Enjolras sits down beside him. He feels an arm slip around his shoulders and pull him in close. His face is buried in Enjolras’ jumper and he realises he is choking on a sob.

“If I had known you felt bad, I would have stayed home,” says Enjolras, his voice wavering just a little. “You know that.”

He doesn’t question Grantaire about why or how often, because he doesn’t know how to without fucking things up even more. He thought things were better, but now he sees that’s clearly not the case. He knows it’s not an isolated incident- that’s written all over Grantaire’s thighs.

Enjolras cannot offer reassurances. He has no idea what works; what Grantaire wants. He doesn’t know how to help and for the first time the thought enters his mind that perhaps recovery is a myth after all.


	2. (fight pain with more pain)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Did I write this at 3am? Yeah.
> 
> Is it shit? Absolutely.
> 
> Do I even care at this point? Well.

Grantaire wakes up to the smell of burnt toast and tries to convince himself that’s a good thing. He can hear the television is on at low volume- France 24, of course, and Enjolras is making little comments after everything the anchor says. Some of them are scathing, but none of them are quite as poised as Grantaire would usually expect. Enjolras’ voice has a shaky undertone, like something’s bothering him, and in that moment Grantaire remembers last night.

Enjolras had been so quiet, all colour gone from his wonderful face, which made Grantaire feel even shittier than he had in the first place. 

_If I had known you felt bad, I would have stayed home._

And Enjolras knows, now, that it wasn’t just a bad day, that much was clear in the disappointment in his eyes. He knows it was virtually nothing, at least not disastrous when shown in juxtaposition with some of the shit Grantaire’s managed before. Grantaire prays he’ll be able to convince his boyfriend that it was just a bump in the road and not, like, a serious problem. Which it is. God, he’s so fucked.

The thing is, Enjolras has so many other things to do, and however much he insists Grantaire is top priority, it isn’t comforting. Grantaire would easily rather Enjolras ignored him and focused on the causes- homelessness and oppression are way bigger problems than Grantaire’s stupid bullshit, and Grantaire hates that he’s too selfish to just _stop being depressed_ for the good of the fucking people, or even for Enjolras, because fuck, he lives to help the oppressed fucking masses. Like people with actual problems. Like. The horrifically persecuted. Like—

SHIT.

Grantaire forces his blurry eyes to open wide as he ejects himself from the duvet, and he is standing up within microseconds. The gentle thump of his feet hitting the ground obviously startles Enjolras, because his beautiful voice stops right in the middle of some biting comment aimed at the TV. Grantaire somehow manages through the haze to make himself walk out of the bedroom. He makes it to the couch before he can’t manage another step, and in less shitty circumstances he might congratulate himself for getting out of bed at all.

Enjolras is staring at him, the worry painted across his features hidden behind what is quite possibly the world’s fakest smile. He holds in his hand a plate with, lo and behold, incinerated slices of bread, his signature dish. Grantaire’s stomach turns, but not at the charcoal on the toast.

“Good morning, Grantaire,” he says, his voice surprisingly level, taking into consideration how fucking obviously terrified he is.

Grantaire can only shake his head though, hands wildly gesticulating towards the calendar hung on the fridge.

Enjolras frowns. “Are you hungry? Is that what you’re saying?” He looks down at the dish he’s holding. “I mean, I made you breakfast…but I suppose I can understand if you’re after something a bit more appetising. I’ll admit I’m not the best cook-”

Frustrated, Grantaire makes a noise somewhere between a hiss and a whine. “It’s Saturday,” he forces himself to say, the sounds all feeling foreign in the way they press on his throat, like they’re trying to choke him dead.

Enjolras nods. “Yes,” he says slowly, furrowing his brow. “It is, indeed. Is that upsetting for you?”

“The rally,” says Grantaire. “The, uh, fuck, the one with Courf’s speech. The one against-”

“Antisemitism and Islamophobia,” Enjolras finishes for him, looking perhaps a little regretful. “Yeah. I actually just called Combeferre about ten minutes ago, told him I couldn’t make it. Cited a personal emergency.”

Grantaire’s heart sinks, his worst fear confirmed. Enjolras is staying home for him. “It’s not an emergency.”

“Please, R,” Enjolras says, but it isn’t a request, it’s somehow a command. “It really is. You’re not well and I’m going to take care of you.”

He tries to protest, tries to tell Enjolras it’s still not too late to show up at the rally, but his pleas fall on ears that just aren’t listening to him. He finds himself sat at the patio table they use as a dining place, Enjolras across from him, the cremated toast in his mouth tasting no more or less like dust than everything else he eats, even if it is a fair bit crunchier. There is a silence unlike the comfortable ones he is used to in the mornings. This one is weighted- neither of them speaks because neither knows what to say; knows what they can say without making things worse. Grantaire knows what Enjolras is thinking about (and indeed has the right to, because even R himself can’t stop thinking about that same thing, even if in a slightly different light).

He knows what it must be like in Enjolras’ head right now- he must want to ask all kinds of well-meaning-but-petrifying questions like whether R’s still suicidal, and is he having panic attacks in secret again? The answer to these would be “kind of” and “yes”, respectively, if R were to be honest, which he’d never dream of being about such things. He knows Enjolras wants to help him, he just can’t bring himself to be the stupid burden of a dude who calls his boyfriend home from meetings so he can help him with some stupid breathing exercises or wrap him in a blanket or some other stupid, unnecessary shit that takes R out of his head. He knows he’s not worth that kind of care, because it’s not making any kind of long-term difference to how he handles the anxiety, and he knows Enjolras is all about setting into motion sustainable change. Grantaire’s mind is eternally fucked in a way that kind of bars him from being able to be helped in any meaningful way.

It’s Enjolras who speaks, choking down his last bit of blackened crust as the words come rushing out, horrifically uncomfortable and desperate: “You wash your cuts after you…don’t you?”

Of course it’s something so practical. Grantaire’s actually grateful for that- the further away he can get away from the impending feelings-y conversation, the better. “Yeah,” he says, trying to sound convincing, like he actually gives a shit about hygiene and avoiding infection, but he touches his face and looks up and all in all manages to scream “I’m lying” through body language. 

Enjolras knows he’s full of shit, and crosses his arms. “R, you know you have to take care of yourself,” he says, not realising how fully ridiculous it is to be giving that speech to, of all people, Grantaire. “You could get an infection, and that could land you in hospital. I don’t want that, and I know you don’t, either.”

Grantaire hopes that when he does finally get an infection, it’s some kind of super-potent one that lands him neatly in a morgue. He does not express this thought out loud. Instead, he nods like a child scolded.

Enjolras lets out a deep breath as if he’s been holding it, and runs his fingers through his hair, bringing to Grantaire’s attention the beads of sweat on the man’s forehead. “I’m not angry,” he promises. “God knows, I’m not angry at you, alright, I know it’s not your fault, I’m just...” He closes his eyes for a second, then snaps them open. “I’m scared.”

Through the guilt, Grantaire can’t look Enjolras in the eye, let alone formulate a response.

“If you don’t feel up to doing it yourself, I can help you clean your cuts,” Enjolras says. A long pause. “I already got rid of the wine bottles, so you don’t have to worry,” he adds, slowly reaching for Grantaire’s hand.

Grantaire pulls away. “Stop it,” he mumbles.

“You know I can’t do that.”

“Stop it!” he repeats, louder this time, his heart skipping a beat then thumping in double time to make up for its incompetence. “I don’t need you to talk about this. I’m fine. I’m better than fine, I’m fucking great.”

From what Grantaire can see through the cloud of forming tears, Enjolras’ lips are pressed together in a thin line, doing his best not to get frustrated because he knows how much worse that always makes things. It’s considerate and maybe Grantaire would appreciate it if he wasn’t shaking so hard he can literally feel his lungs rattling in his ribcage.

“R, I’m only looking after you. I’m making sure nothing goes really badly wrong- not just because it would upset me, but I know how you feel about hospitals, and I don’t want you to have to go through that.”

Grantaire watches in horror as his vision blackens at the edge.

“I…won’t pretend to know why you do it, or that I can imagine for even a second what you’re going through, but I care about you, R, I believe in you. I believe you can get past this with the right support, and this time I’m going to do my damnedest to make sure you get it.”

After that, he can no longer process Enjolras’ words. The only thing in the world he can even begin to worry about is getting enough air into his lungs, except his breaths are too shallow and he can’t fucking change them and he doesn’t know why and he cries.

*

The next God-knows-how-long is a whirlwind of fear that is strong enough to send him in and out of consciousness a few times. When he finally feels the storm passing, his breathing calming itself a little, his sweaty hands not trembling as hard, he registers that he is no longer on the patio-come-dining chair, but on the sofa, and Enjolras has been replaced by Joly. Joly rubs soothing circles onto his back, whispering reassurances every now and then.

Grantaire turns to look at him, asking with his eyes what the fuck is going on.

“You’re alright,” Joly tells him. “I’m here, and I promise I’ll stay as long as you want.”

He allows himself to relax a little at that, but inside, he is still bursting with stress. “E-Enjolras is-”

“In the kitchen,” says Joly, throwing a little nod behind himself. “He called me when you started panicking. He was dead worried, you know. Because he loves you so much and wouldn’t ever want anything to happen to you.”

He hates that Joly can read him so easily. Or perhaps he’s really just so boring that he radiates low self-esteem. He nods dumbly, his chest clenching up again. “Need to be alone,” he says, even though that’s the last thing he needs right now.

Joly looks worried, but nods. “Okay. Okay, I’ll give you some space.” He backs away into the kitchen, and in the distance, Grantaire can hear murmurs of conversation.

More than anything, he wants to rush into the bathroom and carve some new marks into his skin. He’s sure he’s stable enough now to hold the blade straight and finally do some real damage to make up for last night. But he’s not stupid- well. He’s not that stupid. He knows Joly and Enjolras will know exactly what he’s up to. 

So instead, he takes a different approach to get the fuck out of here, using recalled knowledge from his years as a stupid teenager who’d do anything to skive classes. At least it’s turned out useful for something, he notes, as he takes a few breaths, as heavily as he can. Then, he holds his breath, ignoring the way his lungs scream for the air they’re now accustomed to, and gently presses down on the arteries of his neck.

And with so many years of practice under his belt, he is able to make himself faint within moments.


	3. gee, i'm not sure

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> i feel dead

“But you’ll definitely be okay alone?”

 

Grantaire clenches his jaw, then forces himself to back down. “You’re going to work, not off to war.”

 

“I know that.”

 

Enjolras’ voice is sulky and Grantaire immediately feels shitty. He hurt Enjolras. He disappointed him. He fucked up with the one person he shouldn’t be fucking up with, and yet he fucks up with him more than anyone else, and God, can’t he let his boyfriend be concerned without being such an _asshole_ about it?

 

And because Grantaire can’t speak, it’s Enjolras who breaks the silence.

 

“I think…I’m going to ask C2 to come over and be with you, anyway.”

 

Enjolras probably means to convey _I’m worried because I care about you._ The message Grantaire actually gets is _you can’t be trusted alone._ Which he supposes is fair enough.

 

*

 

“Alright! Operation: Courf, Ferre and R’s Super-Fun Night In is a-go!”

 

Enjolras rolls his eyes, but there’s hidden worry, which Grantaire finds at once both heart-breaking and kind of sickly funny. Because damn. It’s supposed to be Grantaire and Grantaire only who gets this weird separation anxiety, and seeing Enjolras share it is incredibly uncomfortable.

 

Combeferre shoots a reassuring glance at Enjolras, who seems genuinely heartened by this.

 

“You three better not have too much fun without me,” he says, and the accompanying chuckle is forced and it’s painfully obvious but nobody says anything because that would just make everything so much worse. He looks directly at R. “Goodbye, sweetheart,” he says so earnestly that Grantaire isn’t sure whether he wants to laugh or throw up.

 

And with a quick open-and-close of the door, Enjolras is gone.

 

There is a moment of silence, during which Courfeyrac manoeuvres himself over to sit beside R on the sofa, and Grantaire feels weirdly embarrassed because wow, Courf isn’t aware that he literally hasn’t moved in, like, twelve hours.

 

“Alright, R-atron!” Courfeyrac starts, but he doesn’t get far before—

 

Combeferre snorts. “R-atron?”

 

“Yeah,” Courf says, looking at Combeferre in abhorrence. “Like Megatron. You know, ‘cause Megatron is _cool,_ just like R is, you ignorant shit.”

 

Grantaire almost starts to smile as Combeferre throws his hands up in defence.

 

Courfeyrac’s hand on Grantaire’s shoulder is a surprise, and it’s not unwelcome but he certainly would have liked some warning. Courf doesn’t notice his jolt, thank God, and just kind of does that really Courfeyrac thing where he starts speaking.

 

“Now, as I was saying before I was rudely interrupted: dearest R-atron, what do you want to do right now?”

 

And of course Grantaire thinks, _cry, cut myself, drink until I can’t breathe,_ but that’s probably not what Courf wants to hear, so he tries a goofy grin (it is less than convincing) and says, “Whatever you want.”

 

Combeferre clears his throat. “Have you seen the time? I think I’ll make some dinner for the three of us.”

 

That sounds so forced that Grantaire has to blink to process it. “Um, I’m not really hungry, so you can just cook for you and Courf.”

 

“R, please.” Combeferre’s voice is a little strained, and that’s how Grantaire is absolutely sure that Enjolras said something about how he’s not been eating properly and to feed him and fuck, he can’t refuse when fucking _Combeferre_ looks worried about him! So he just nods dumbly, feeling even more like he’s being babysat than he did a minute ago.

 

It’s like he’s Enjolras’ puppy or something. Nobody ever really wants to hang out with him when Enjolras isn’t there, it’s just that they feel obligated because puppies don’t do well on their own in flats. He is under no illusions here. He knows that Courf and Combeferre are just here to watch him out of obligation to Enjolras.

 

Being Enjolras’ puppy is a privilege, though, so maybe he’s kind of okay with being put up with instead of genuinely liked. After all, he deserves so much less and he still marvels at the fact that Enjolras chose him. Because seriously, holy fuck, it’s fucking Enjolras and he’s so out of his league it’s ridiculous. Grantaire still hails it as a miracle that Enjolras tolerates him, let alone anything more than that.

 

But wait, no, actually, he’s not Enjolras’ puppy because puppies are cute and generally pleasant to be around. He’s more like Enjolras’ snake. Enjolras’ tarantula. Enjolras’ overgrown stick insect that people have to feed when Enjolras is out, and just kind of stare into his tank and tap the glass to make sure he’s not dead.

 

Grantaire needs to stop letting his mind wander to stick insects; they’re fucking creepy.

 

Courf’s hand slips into his, and Grantaire slips back into reality, staring at his friend’s face. From the way Courf’s brow is furrowed in worry, he is able to infer that he must have zoned out. That happens sometimes and he wished he could switch it off when he had guests over, because it was probably bad host etiquette to make them deal with shitty symptoms.

 

“You okay?” Courf murmurs.

 

He nods blankly. “Never been better.”

 

The fact that he can speak is evidently enough to calm Courf down. “Great,” he says. “Alright, how about you and me watch a film while Combeferre cooks, yeah? Something we both like. Maybe…something animated? Or something musical!”

 

“Or something both animated and musical,” Combeferre calls from the kitchen counter, which makes both Courfeyrac and Grantaire jump, their hands clasping each other even more tightly.

 

“Sorry,” he says, wincing just a bit, of course always attentive to even the little reactions. “Anyway, might I interest you in a Disney film? Say, Aladdin?”

 

Courfeyrac’s face lights up. “Combeferre, you’re a genius!” he exclaims in mock-awe, then turns back to Grantaire. “Seriously though, I totally forgot Aladdin even existed. I know it’s one of your favourites, though, so would you like to watch it?”

 

That sounds more or less exactly as interesting as watching paint dry. “I’m always up for Aladdin, Courf.”

 

Courf smirks. “See? I’m always right.”

 

Grantaire doesn’t point out that it was Combeferre’s idea, because he doesn’t really have the energy to be a dick. He just wishes Enjolras trusted him enough to be alone, because friends make him feel better, sure, but he doesn’t deserve that and feeling “better” makes him so fucking exhausted.

 

By the time he’s finished silently lamenting over how tired he is, Courf has put the DVD in, which means he must have found the DVD first, and with the state of disarray that Enjolras and Grantaire’s DVD drawer is in, Grantaire knows either he’s been thinking for way too long or Courf has super-speed. He sees the Aladdin box on the coffee table and he’s like, wow, because it’s a miracle the disc was even in the right box instead of the one for Citizen Kane or Little Shop of Horrors or The fucking Reagan Diaries or something.

 

“We’re going to sing along,” Courf says, and the way he says it as a fact instead of asking leaves no room for protest. Grantaire is suddenly afflicted by a pang of guilt. Courf is trying so hard to pretend everything is okay, and there he is, not playing along with nearly enough enthusiasm.

 

Perhaps he overcompensates with his response. “Fuck yeah!” he half-shouts, and it is laughably empty but whatever.

 

Grantaire makes up for the lack of expressiveness in his voice by being perfectly on key (unlike Courf) when they sing (screech, in Courf’s case) along to One Jump Ahead. His range is dynamic even though he hasn’t sung in so long and he’s kind of getting into this now, wondering if he can manage to pitch-match Jasmine when A Whole New World rolls around, but before they can even get as far as Aladdin rubbing the lamp, Combeferre announces, “Dinner’s ready!”

 

And suddenly R is full of dread.

 

Combeferre comes in and places a bowl of pasta in each of their laps. “I know it’s not much,” he says almost apologetically, “but it’s all I could really make. You and Enjolras really need to do some shopping.” He darts back into the kitchen and gets his own bowl, returning to sit beside Courf. If Grantaire could think right now, he’d process that that was because Courf was his fiancé, but he’d be lying if he said he didn’t feel like Combeferre was trying to avoid him.

 

But that didn’t matter right now.

 

He could just about handle playing along with the whole “yeah-R-we-actually-want-to-spend-time-with-you” thing, but he hasn’t really considered the whole dinner thing far enough. He realised he is so sickeningly not-hungry, even after eating hardly anything for two days, and even less so with Courf and Combeferre staring at him expectantly.

 

Eating is so much fucking harder in front of people, because R can tell he’s being judged. He doesn’t deserve food, he knows that, and presumably so do other people. It’s stupid, but swallowing anything more nutritious than his own saliva sets him off. Because he’s showing how horribly selfish he is to other people, and he hates doing that. Which is probably kind of selfish in itself.

 

And now he’s thinking himself into a hole again, which Enjolras explicitly told him not to do, except not in his angry Enjolras order way, but in that fucking poorly-hidden distraught way he’d got into the habit of saying things in, and Grantaire hates it because God, it’s so much easier to deal with when Enjolras just gets pissed at him, but he won’t do that anymore. Like he thinks (not erroneously) that R is fragile. He puts R’s needs above his feelings and it is revolting because R could be bleeding out on the floor and if Enjolras wanted to kick him, that would be fine by him because holy fuck, Enjolras always comes first.

 

He is not going to have another panic attack. That’s happened far too many times in the past few days and he is determined to save whatever shards of dignity he still has lying around. It’s stupid, because he knows they know how broken he is, because Enjolras talks, and because he’s so obvious. His acting abilities are crumbling and he knows he’s crying as he shovels a mouthful of the food into his mouth and he’s just praying neither of his friends are going to bring it up but he kind of knows he shouldn’t get his hopes up.

 

There is a bit of a scramble as Courfeyrac puts his bowl on the carpet, almost knocking it over in his desperation, and pauses the film.

 

Combeferre is the one who reaches out and touches his shoulder. “R, what’s wrong?”

 

Grantaire jerks away from the touch. “I’m fine,” he breathes as soon as he has swallowed the food, unchewed. His throat feels like death and his stomach is already trying to bring it back up.

 

“Grantaire—”

 

“I said I’m fine!” he hisses, and Courfeyrac flinches and he would feel even worse but he’s already hit rock bottom. “Look, I—I’m sorry, just put the film back on?”

 

Courfeyrac doesn’t know if he should, but he does, and they watch the film in an awkward silence. Combeferre is furious with himself, aware he’s the one expected to fix this, but he doesn’t really know how. Grantaire is so tired, and he fakes falling asleep so they won’t have to talk to him anymore. He even stays still when they talk about him, instead.


End file.
